Former
Durangoan Jen Reeder revels in happier times in
full fairy attire during last year’s Mardi Gras
celebration in New Orleans. She is flanked by
friend and costume designer, Leo. Reeder evacuated
the city last weekend, but Leo stuck it out,
facing a harrowing ordeal of survival and
rescue./Photo courtesy Jen
Reeder.

by Jen Reeder

This time last year, word got
out that my husband, Bryan, and I were renting out our
house in Durango so we could go check out the Big Easy
for awhile. Reactions from Durangoans generally fell
into two camps: “Don’t you know New Orleans is always on
‘Cops?’” and “Can I stay with you for JazzFest?” Only
one person, married to an insurance adjuster, responded
with, “If there is a hurricane, you have to evacuate.” I
thought she was crazy.

Obviously, I love Durango. I don’t need to tell you
why. I also loved life in New Orleans. I loved commuting
on the St. Charles streetcar, which had been running
since 1835. I loved Po’ Boy sandwiches, and that the
gigantic woman behind the counter would call me and
every other customer “Baby,” “Honey” or “Sweetie.” I
loved the architecture that is so conducive to a good
buzz, and I loved the 350-year-old oak trees on our
street. I loved dancing like a maniac to live music at
Tipitina’s and the Maple Leaf. I loved Mardi Gras and
JazzFest as well as every other excuse for a celebration
– they happen constantly. I loved being in a place where extra weight is an asset; my
first day of work at a swanky jazz place in the French
Quarter, the chef told me he wanted to see me in Spandex
because he likes his women “with a side of beef.”

I don’t think I met a single boring person in New
Orleans. They’ll tell you about the invention of the
cocktail, why you should never get married during the
LSU homecoming (your guests will go to the game), or the
importance of being able to have cheese fries delivered
at 3 a.m. I loved their eagerness to show off their
beloved city and complete lack of pretension. It is such
a uniquely cool place that the natives don’t leave –
they might try for awhile, but they
inevitably come running back. Their love runs
deep.

However, just how deep was tested last week. Saturday
morning, we awoke to news that Hurricane Katrina was
pointed at New Orleans and nearby parishes were
beginning voluntary evacuations. We decided to heed the
warning, and Bryan went to gas the car, which required a
45-minute wait. I did laundry and packed the cooler with
beer while waiting for the mayor’s news conference to
start. When we learned that contraflow (all lanes on the
highway head out of town to help speed evacuation) would
start at 4 p.m., we knew the threat was real. We called
our co-workers and learned Bryan’s boss was headed to
Houston, while mine thought (like a lot of people) that
Katrina was another false alarm. She expected me back
Monday.

Just before midnight, we made it to Memphis. “You
runnin’ from that hurricane?” asked the hotel clerk. I
was glad that one of my co-workers had told me to make a
reservation, since they weren’t taking any more
walk-ins.

People
flank a balcony in New Orleans’ French Quarter
last February during Mardi Gras./Photo courtesy
Jen Reeder.

Sunday morning’s news was that
Katrina was a Category 5 and that Mayor Nagin
(who I love, incidentally) had ordered a mandatory
evacuation. We started calling people again, especially
the two friends we were supposed to see a movie with
that night. Leo’s cell phone wasn’t working, but I
called a land line to get a hold of Lawrence, who Bryan
and I call “the real Ragin’ Cajun.” He was refusing to
leave his apartment in the French Quarter because it was
built in 1849 and had survived many storms. “This ain’t
my first rodeo,” he told me as I pleaded with him to
leave.

As we all know, then came the flooding. Lawrence said
because everything was dark from the continuing power
outage, nighttime felt creepy. I begged him to leave,
and he told me not to worry because he had a pistol.
“There’s a new sheriff in town – Lawrence Tullier!”
That’s the last time we spoke; now his phone just rings.
(If you are his sister in Pagosa Springs, please let me
know if he’s OK at jen@jenreeder.com.)

We were in Kansas the week after Katrina hit when I
finally got through to Leo. He had just gotten to Baton
Rouge after waiting on I-10 to be evacuated. He’d tried
to leave with family Sunday, but traffic was insane, so
they decided to wait out the storm in his Mid-City
apartment.

Leo couldn’t really talk; he and some other family
members were trying to get to Houston. He kept repeating
that the situation in New Orleans was “horrible.” But he
tried to console me with, “Don’t worry, girl, we will
see each other again.”

I can’t believe the stories I’m hearing from evacuees
and the footage I’m seeing on TV. I’m filled with a
profound sadness (and mounting outrage).

There are a lot of uncertainties in our future, a lot
of emotions to deal with and plans to make, and this is
the perfect place to regroup. We feel incredibly
fortunate that, unlike our Southern friends, we still
have a home to return to – we can take comfort in
Colorado. •